


Achilles Come Down

by shiroics



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Champion Shiro (Voltron), Introspective Shiro, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Season 8 Doesn't Exist, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25436125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiroics/pseuds/shiroics
Summary: Shiro doesn’t spar with first-year cadets. He makes an exception for Keith.“You’re pretty good,” Shiro offers. “For a cadet.”Keith glances at him, his eyes narrowing. “You’re pretty good too.” A beat, then: “For an old timer.”
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 92





	Achilles Come Down

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song of the same name by Gang of Youths which is 7 minutes and 3 seconds of pure awesomeness.

Shiro refuses to spar with the first-year cadets. It’s not that he dislikes the cadets, or that they dislike him — his lab sections always fill up the fastest, and he’s constantly accosted in the halls by kids in orange uniforms looking for encouragement and physics help.

Shiro doesn’t mind. He likes being a role model. But he’s never liked the idea of hurting someone both untrained and smaller than he is. Unlike some of the other junior officers, he doesn’t feel like tough shit when he flattens a fifteen-year-old kid on the mat.

His refusal to spar with cadets is met with disappointment every year. Whenever Shiro’s on the mat and a kid with that telltale pinched and stretched look of someone who’s grown too much in too short of a time steps up, Shiro will shake his head apologetically and make a beeline for the weights.

This year it’s James Griffin — just slightly above average in all counts except for his unparalleled ability to kiss ass — who attempts to wheedle his way into a sparring match. Shiro hastily pairs Griffin up with Kinkade, offering up a barrage of helpful pointers in the hopes of distracting Griffin from his original goal.

After Griffin, there’s McClain who bounces around the mat with his fists up. Shiro fixes the cadet’s posture ( _“Thumbs outside your fist”_ ), and begs off, citing a meeting with Iverson that doesn’t exist. Shiro does note that McClain has one advantage in a fight — the kid is so skinny that Shiro would have to really aim well to actually hit him.

The truth is that Shiro doesn’t like the last few seconds of a fight with someone who’s so much smaller and weaker than him. He can always see the moment when his opponent gives up and accepts defeat. While that’s highly satisfying in a well-matched fight, it’s downright depressing in any other situation.

He could go easy on the cadets — pull his punches and slow his kicks — except the idea of coddling is foreign to Shiro. Restraint is something he understands, and it’s a necessary skill honed by years of military discipline. Coddling is not. He’d rather pair the cadets up with each other and coach them through their fights, then spar with them when they’ve gained some muscle mass and the ability to punch without breaking their fingers.

He avoids the gym during its busy hours for the next few weeks. It screws up his schedule, but at least he doesn’t have to worry about dodging Griffin and McClain.

Shiro’s wrapping his hands when the gym door opens. He’s alone in the room, and he tenses, hoping it’s not Griffin or McClain or any cadet who’s salivating for a chance to get their ass kicked. It is a cadet, but it’s Keith — the kid with the watchful eyes and permanent scowl. Shiro’s not above picking favourites, and despite the car-theft debacle of Shiro’s fourteenth recruitment mission, he likes Keith best out of all the first-year cadets. Maybe it’s because he sees himself in Keith’s wary posture, and the way Keith’s expression always goes hungry when he’s near the simulator. What exactly he’s hungry for — Shiro doesn’t exactly know. Although if Keith is anything like Shiro — and Shiro suspects Keith is — he’s hungry for that adrenaline rush that even Shiro still gets any time he takes to the air. It doesn’t matter if the flight is simulated or real. The thrill of seeing the sky peel open for Shiro has never faded.

Keith hovers in the doorway, looking as skittish as a stray cat. He turns to leave, but Shiro steps towards Keith, his hand outstretched. “Wait,” he says. He’s curious about Keith; this first-year cadet who has been smashing each and every one of Shiro’s records in the simulator.

He’s only seen Keith in passing since the beginning of the semester. Unlike his classmates, Keith doesn’t seek Shiro out. The part of Shiro — the part that preens when cadets follow him in the halls and flushes with pride when senior officers lavish their praises upon him during his classes — sulks knowing that Keith isn’t half as interested in Shiro as Shiro is in Keith.

“Do you want to spar?” Shiro asks. He’s not sure why he makes the offer. Maybe he’s just bored of spending his evenings with the punching bag.

“Okay,” Keith takes the tape from Shiro and begins to wrap his hands, his movements far quicker and more practiced than any of his classmates.

“You’ve done this before,” Shiro observes as Keith sets the tape aside and pulls off his socks and shoes. Keith shrugs, flexing his hands. He steps onto the mat, his eyes following Shiro as he does the same. He’s not scowling anymore.

Shiro sinks into his fighting stance, and Keith mirrors the movement. He’s so unlike Griffin whose unearned and self-awarded authority over his classmates grates on Shiro’s patience, or McClain whose unrestrained enthusiasm makes Shiro worry for the kid’s future at the Garrison.

Keith is quiet, intense, and as Shiro realizes while he’s throwing a few experimental punches, no stranger to fighting.

For the first few minutes, Keith dances away from Shiro’s fists and feet. He doesn’t fall for the tricks that normally work on cadets, forcing Shiro to get more creative.

Keith’s flying style is unconventional, and it’s no surprise that he’s just as unpredictable in a fight. Shiro has watched him fly in the simulator a few times, and even Shiro with his iron stomach, always feels a little queasy afterwards. Keith likes risks; without fail, he always takes the fast way over the safe way. All of the qualities within Keith — daring, efficiency, creativity — are the same qualities that the Garrison dismisses as unnecessary and dangerous.

There’s a rawness to Keith’s abilities. He has the potential to be a great pilot and a capable fighter, but he’s undisciplined in both areas. For that reason, Keith and the Garrison are constantly at odds with each other. Unlike the Garrison, Shiro doesn’t think Keith needs to be forced to fit into the mold of the perfect, obedient cadet. Keith needs a guiding hand; someone to believe that what Keith offers is enough. Shiro thinks he can be that person for Keith.

Shiro watches Keith’s movements with a critical eye. Keith relies too heavily on his speed. His movements prioritize show over substance. He has enough talent to excel against his fellow first years in sparring matches, and those victories have made him cocky. Shiro’s doing Keith a favour when he takes Keith down onto the mat.

They grapple for a few minutes, and Shiro dominates. Keith’s agility and speed aren’t much use to him when he and Shiro are just inches apart.

There comes a moment when Keith has to know he’s going to lose — Shiro nearly has Keith pinned to the mat — but when he risks a glance at Keith’s face, he can’t see any desperation in Keith’s eyes at all. He’s bucking and twisting under Shiro’s hands, his face screwed up in concentration, his canines sharp against his lip.

There’s a fire inside Keith, and it burns bright, indomitable and strong.

But there’s a fire inside Shiro too, and it’s white hot, stoked by his desperation to reach the stars before his failing muscles give out for good. There’s no moment in Shiro’s life when he can let “good enough” be enough. Every breath is a clock tick on a timer counting down far faster than the clocks of those around him.

Shiro grits his teeth and presses down on Keith in a hold that’s final and unmovable. “Give,” he pants.

Keith strains against Shiro, obstinately testing each place that he and Shiro touch. Shiro doesn’t relent, and Keith huffs. “I give,” he says after a long pause.

Shiro rolls off onto his back beside Keith. They both lie on the mat, panting. “You’re pretty good,” Shiro offers. “For a cadet.”

Keith glances at him, his eyes narrowing. “You’re pretty good too.” A beat, then: “For an old timer.”

Shiro laughs breathlessly as Keith sits up and reaches for his socks and shoes. He wants to make Keith stay. Except Keith has other ideas as he unwraps the tape on his hands, and Shiro feels a strange sense of impending loss. He’s never met anyone quite like Keith before. A fighter — even when he’s losing.

“We can spar again,” Shiro offers. “Maybe next week?”

Keith almost smiles. “I’d like that. Thanks, Shiro.”

Shiro watches him leave the gym. His back is straight, and his steps are sure, and if anyone looked at Keith in that moment, they might think he’d been the one to win the fight.

____________

The blood from the cut across his nose washes down his face. His mouth is full of blood, and he’s full to the brim with fear and rage and helplessness.

He’s going to die.

He’s going to die in an arena millions of light years away from his home while a rabid crowd howls for his death. He’ll be buried in an unmarked grave, and everyone he loves will never know what happened to him.

Shiro’s opponent is a Galran fighter who’s bigger and stronger than Shiro. He’s vicious and confident, and he appears to relish his time in the arena. He swings his sword at Shiro’s neck with terrifying speed, and Shiro forces his exhausted muscles to move just in time. He throws himself behind an ornamental pillar, desperately sucking in big gulps of air.

The crowd is screaming his opponent’s name. Once in a while, Shiro hears the odd “Champion” amongst the cries. He’s an unlikely favourite in the arena, but for every supporter, there’s five more spectators who can’t wait to see his corpse laid out at Zarkon’s feet.

His time with the Galra has changed him. Shiro no longer stands on a moral high ground of his own making, looking down his nose at unfair fights. There’s no place for that kind of moral code in the arena. Shiro has killed other gladiators who were smaller and weaker than him because he’d chosen his life over his conscience. Now, he’s the smaller and weaker one. He’s going to die.

Shiro shifts in the sand and leans against the pillar. The Galra is waiting for him on the other side, toying with him, putting on a good show for the crowd. It won’t be quick when he dies today.

What would the Garrison think of him now? What would they say if they saw their star pilot crouched in the sand like an animal waiting to die? At this point, Shiro finds that he doesn’t care very much about the Garrison with its inane rules and useless protocols.

What he does care about is what Keith would think of him in this moment. Keith who, from the very first moment Shiro met him, has always spat at the odds and fought like a wild thing — no matter the circumstances.

The week after their first fight, Keith showed up at the gym again. They sparred, and Keith lost. While he lost again the next week, and the week after that, Keith never faltered, nor did he give up. Closing his eyes, he can still picture the look of pure pride on Keith’s face after he pinned Shiro to the mat for the first time.

Heavy footsteps swish across the sand, and Shiro is unceremoniously deposited back into the present. Above him, the pillar explodes as the Galra cuts through it with one blow. Shiro ducks, scrambling out from beneath the rubble. His palm is slick against his sword’s hilt.

He backs away from his opponent, his mind stubbornly clinging to memories of Keith. The smile that spread across Keith’s face like spilled honey when Shiro gasped out _I give_. The feeling of his wrists clasped in Keith’s slim hands. Keith on the hoverbike, his nose red and peeling from the Arizona sun. Keith sitting across from him in the diner near the Garrison, trying his best to look innocent as he steals Shiro’s fries. Keith on the day that Shiro left for Kerberos, his eyes darting between Shiro and the ship as if he couldn’t decide where to look.

Shiro had made a promise that day: a promise to come home.

He raises his sword — just in time — to block the blade whistling towards his leg.

 _Keith._ Shiro pulls his sword away and ducks as the Galra swings again.

_I’ll come back to you._

Shiro dances around the Galra, moving in as close as he dares.

_We’ll fly together someday._

The Galra’s swing — unexpectedly unstopped when Shiro ducked — throws the Galra off balance, leaving him briefly wrong-footed on the ever-shifting sand. Shiro sees an opening, a tiny moment of opportunity. He drives his sword into the gladiator’s armpit. Such an insignificant, deadly spot. Galran and human anatomy isn’t that different after all.

_I promise._

The Galra falls to his knees and then slumps to the ground, blood spurting from the wound as Shiro pulls his sword away.

Shiro looks up to the Royal Box. Sometimes Zarkon sits there. Other times one of his underlings is there instead. It doesn’t really matter who’s in the box; the order is always the same.

Thumb down.

Shiro hefts the sword and brings it down on his opponent’s neck. It’s a quick death, far better than the kind of end that the Galra would have given him. Despite the multitude of sins that Shiro has committed in the arena, his one point of redemption is that he always makes death come fast for his opponents. Some of the more bloodthirsty spectators don’t like that his kills are too clean. He delivers death and is done with it. The same can’t be said for a large majority of the arena’s gladiators.

He knows the human thing to do would be to mourn, to rage against this unjustifiable waste of life. The problem is that he’s not sure if he’s human anymore.

Keeping his head down, he leaves the arena. He’s led to the infirmary where the Galran medic with the furry bat-like ears cleans out the gash across his nose before ushering him into a healing pod. The care he receives after a match is better than what most gladiators get. He may be human, and only worth Zarkon’s contempt, but he’s also the Champion. At the moment, he’s worth more alive than dead.

He has to force down the panic rising in his throat when the pod snaps shut. The skin around his nose tingles as the pod begins its work. Shiro shuts his eyes tight and sinks blissfully into black nothingness.

Shiro’s only in the pod for a few hours, the Galran technology speeding along the healing process that would have otherwise taken weeks. When he steps out into the med bay, the same medic inspects the new skin over the bridge of Shiro’s nose.

“It’ll leave a scar,” the medic says.

Shiro nods and turns away.

A guard takes him back to his cell. He waits until the door slams shut before relieving himself in the bucket in the corner. All that Galran technology, and all Shiro is worth is a bucket. The cell is eight steps by six steps. The walls are made of a smooth, dark metal. He has a rudimentary pallet with a single blanket. There’s a window in the door that allows Shiro to look out on to the corridor.

Despite his aching muscles (even the pod can’t fix the bone-deep ache inside him), he tries to keep his mind occupied with his normal routine of push-ups, sit-ups and whatever else he can manage in the tiny space, but, inevitably, his thoughts drift to the match with the Galran gladiator.

Shiro thinks about dying more than he ever did before — even more than he did when he was on Earth with a terminal illness hanging over his head. In space, the debilitating muscle tremors had faded away to nothing as gravity weakened and eventually disappeared. His wristbands had been one of the first things taken from him by the Galra, and he’s grateful that he doesn’t need them. He might never need them again.

He eats some sort of tasteless nutrition goop that gets pushed through the slot in his door twice a day, and he wonders if it’s his last meal every time. He remembers the last real meal he ate on Earth (the dry toast he managed to swallow down on the morning of the launch doesn’t count). It had been a hamburger from the diner just outside the Garrison, piled high with lettuce and cheese and bacon, and he’d washed it down with a milkshake, so thick and creamy that it had coated his tongue and throat in milky sweetness.

Shiro doesn’t want to die with the taste of alien goop in his mouth.

He sleeps, and he dreams of his long-dead grandparents: his grandmother with her soft hands and ever-smiling mouth, his grandfather with his broad shoulders and wise sayings. He wakes up, and he wonders if he’ll meet them again after death.

He watches aliens of all sizes and colours, some more monstrous than others, pass outside his cell, and he wonders which aliens will fall by his hand, and by whose hands he will fall in the arena with its blood-soaked sand.

Most of all, he thinks of that promise he’d made to Keith as they stood in the shadow of the ship taking Shiro to Kerberos. No other promise that Shiro’s made in his life matters more: _I’ll come back to you. We’ll fly together someday. I promise._

Shiro doesn’t know who he is anymore. All that was once good in him is gone. He eats, he sleeps, he kills.

In the rare moments that he can summon any kind of emotion, he’s overwhelmed by the guilt. He’s ashamed of himself. Better fighters — human and alien alike — have died by his hand, but he can’t stop fighting. Meeting the Galra on Kerberos wasn’t just an unfortunate coincidence; Shiro knows the Empire will turn its hungry eyes to Earth if it hasn’t already. The Holts are long gone, and Shiro’s the only one who knows about the Galra and the threat they pose to Earth.

Escape seems impossible, but Shiro knows that there has to come a time when someone slips up. Just like his fight with the Galran gladiator earlier, even when all seems lost, Shiro’ll find that opening, that moment when he can slide the blade through the artery. A door left unlocked. A spaceship stolen in the night. Whatever it takes to protect the people he loves. Until then, Shiro keeps fighting. Even as it tears his humanity to shreds. Even as it turns him into a monster.

Shiro doesn’t know how much time passes until a guard comes to collect him. Time passes differently in the prison, and there’s no sunlight to mark the passing of days. He gets to his feet as the guard unlocks the door. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. There’s only one reason why Shiro is let out of his cell. Shiro steps out of his cell and follows the guard down the hall. He hears the crowd screaming, the rhythm of their voices beating in time with his heart.

_Champion. Champion. CHAMPION._

His guard gives him his sword once they reach the gate. The blade is nicked, and the Galra’s blood still stains the tip. If he was allowed, Shiro would care for his weapon like the Garrison taught him. The sword is all he has to protect himself in the arena.

Fear sits heavily in Shiro’s stomach like the Garrison’s greasiest mystery meatloaf. He’s been in the arena dozens of times, but he still sweats and shakes and swallows down the nausea when he stands at the gate, waiting to be let inside. He’ll always fear the arena and the horrors it holds.

The gate rattles as it’s raised out of Shiro’s way. The roar of the spectators hits him full force, and he tightens his grip on his sword. He can’t see his opponent yet, but it doesn’t matter. Whether they’re an unwilling conscript or a bloodthirsty volunteer, they’re going to die today. Because it’s either them or Shiro, and Shiro has to survive. He doesn’t have a choice. He has a promise to keep.

____________

The war is won, but the process of healing from the wounds it inflicted is taking longer than Shiro would like.

Shiro’s in the Garrison’s gym, standing on one of the faded orange mats. Like always, the other gym-goers give him a wide berth. He’s not sure if it’s because of the arm or his rank or the expression on his face, but only the occasional brave — or just stupid — cadet tries to spar with him now.

His eyes are drawn to a commotion near the centre of the room. An officer named Clarkson is sparring with a cadet wearing that telltale stretched and pinched look. Shiro drifts over to the fight, disgust coiling in his throat. It’s not a fair fight. The cadet stumbles and falls to his hands and knees, and Clarkson pounces, his right fist drawn back. Shiro’s focus shifts inward, and for a tick, he’s back in the arena with his arms raised to protect his head while a massive Galran gladiator bears down on him …

He blinks. Hard. The memory fades.

“That’s enough.” His voice is quiet, but the cheers from the crowd around him cut off mid-shout.

Clarkson pauses, annoyance flickering across his face. He gets to his feet and salutes stiffly. “Sir?”

“You’ve shown everyone how good you are in an unfair fight. That means nothing. Fight me if you want to prove your skill.”

The crowd titters, and Clarkson’s face flushes before he realizes the opportunity he’s been given: the chance to beat the Garrison’s Golden Boy. That opportunity doesn’t come around anymore as Shiro refuses to spar with anyone since the war ended. He’s seen the proof of what he can do burned onto Keith’s cheek.

“You are the best, sir,” Clarkson says, a sardonic note to his voice. “The Champion.”

Shiro dips his head in acknowledgement. He is the best. To survive the arena, he had to be. Clarkson thinks the title of Champion is a source of pride for Shiro. He’s dead wrong; sometimes Shiro thinks he might drown in all the shame that the title invokes.

Clarkson shakes out his shoulders, and Shiro steps onto the mat. The cadet clambers to his feet and melts into the crowd that’s growing steadily larger as other gym-goers drift over to watch the match. Out of the corner of his eye, Shiro sees Pidge and Hunk standing along the right edge of the mat. Pidge’s pockets are stuffed full of what suspiciously looks like bills.

Clarkson is grinning. His confidence — or what Shiro would rather call arrogance — rolls off him in waves. Shiro wonders what Clarkson sees in Shiro that makes him so sure that he’s going to win. Perhaps like so many others at the Garrison, he assumes that Shiro’s fighting days are over. Admirals don’t fight; they strategize.

“Weapons?” Clarkson asks.

Shiro looks uneasily at the rack of weapons along the east wall. “None.”

Clarkson looks at Shiro’s right arm. “I’d say you have an unfair advantage with hand-to-hand, sir.”

Shiro directs his arm towards Pidge who catches it. She powers it down. “Anything else?” Shiro asks.

Shaking his head. Clarkson sinks into his fighting stance. The smirk playing around his mouth is more pronounced. Shiro knows it’s not a fair fight. Clarkson just hasn’t realized that Shiro doesn’t need the Altean arm to win.

Clarkson moves first. He lunges for Shiro like he expects Shiro to be cowed by the combination of his speed and size. But Shiro’s seen faster. He’s seen bigger. And he’s still alive to remember those opponents while they were dragged out the arena by their feet, and their corpses thrown into unmarked graves. Shiro ducks away, and Clarkson charges past him, barely catching himself before he steps off of the mat.

Shiro once fought like Clarkson and his friends. Green boys who think crisp form and well-trained muscles are enough to win any fight. A year in arena taught Shiro otherwise. Winning takes grit and rage and fear. Clarkson doesn’t know fear like Shiro. He’s never had to follow a guard down a long metal hall as the roaring of the crowd grows louder and louder with every step, knowing that was waiting for him was either death or more guilt added on to the already crushing weight in his gut.

Shiro has looked into the eyes of his opponent — eyes that were just as frightened and helpless as his own — and driven the knife in anyways because it was him or them, and Shiro made a promise to come home to Keith.

In the end, it’s not much of a fight. Clarkson barely presents enough of a challenge to take the edge off of the restless energy thrumming just beneath Shiro’s skin.

Clarkson skulks away, his shoulders drawn up to his ears. Shiro feels no joy in the victory.

No one else steps up to fight, and the crowd slowly disperses. Pidge reactivates his arm, and it zooms back to Shiro. She and Hunk wave goodbye as they drift towards the door. Shiro watches them go until a familiar red jacket catches his eye.

“Looks like you’ve scared everyone off.” Keith says, stepping onto the mat. He’s smiling softly, his head tilted to one side. In some ways, he’s still like the angry cadet who stole Shiro’s jeep so many years ago. He still wears that hungry look when he flies. He still fights obstinately even when defeat is inevitable.

And yet, he is so unlike that boy. He knows himself now.

Keith is Shiro’s partner in every way. In war, and in whatever comes after war which is infinitely more terrifying to Shiro than flying into battle every other day.

During their first fight in the Garrison gym, Shiro could have never guessed what Keith would come to mean to him. Even before he left for the Kerberos mission, his connection to Keith ran deep. As he struggled for survival in the arena, the memory of Keith’s fighting spirit carried him through those dark days.

He doesn’t tell Keith much about his time as the Galra’s Champion. He doesn’t remember all of what happened in that year, and some of what he remembers is too heavy of a burden to put on another person.

The gym is nearly empty when Shiro finally speaks. “Did you—?”

Keith nods as he sheds his jacket, socks and shoes. “You did him a favour.” He smiles up at Shiro. “Clarkson’s an asshole.”

"What are you doing?”

“I want to spar.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Shiro’s eyes drop to Keith’s cheek. Keith touches the scar, and Shiro looks away, hot shame flooding through his stomach.

“I can take whatever you give, Shiro.” Keith’s smile takes on a teasing edge. “Maybe I’m the only one who can.”

The heat in Shiro’s stomach flares in an entirely different way. “Okay,” he hears himself say. “But if you feel unsafe—”

Keith cuts him off with a kiss. “I trust you, Shiro.”

Shiro kisses him back for a tick before dropping his forehead against Keith’s cheek. “I don’t trust myself.”

“You will,” Keith says simply. He pats Shiro’s right hand. “Don’t turn this off. I don’t need the advantage.”

“That confident, are you?”

Keith bares his teeth, the point of his canines glinting under the fluorescent lights. “Yes.”

That, more than anything, soothes Shiro’s worry. He’s the Champion, but Keith’s a half-human Blade, talented and resilient enough to earn his place in an organization steeped in tradition and absolutes.

Shiro sinks into his fighting stance, and Keith mirrors his movement. They stand at opposite ends of the mat, the world narrowing down to just the two of them.

Shiro moves first, throwing a punch at Keith who ducks to the side. He follows up with two more punches in quick succession — both of which Keith dodges easily He’s not even bothering to block or counter, instead relying on his Galran reflexes and in-depth knowledge of Shiro’s fighting style to avoid the blows.

Shiro lifts his eyebrows. “I thought we were going to fight.”

Keith snorts as they circle each other. “Patience, old timer.” He catches Shiro’s next punch, his fingers wrapping firmly around the wrist of Shiro’s Altean arm, using Shiro’s momentum to spin Shiro around and pin it against his back.

“Not bad,” Shiro says before sending the arm shooting out of Keith’s grasp. Keith grunts, his eyes fixed warily on the floating arm. Knowing that sneak attacks are pointless since Keith won’t let the arm out of his sight now, Shiro brings it back to his side. Shiro slides his foot between Keith’s feet, but Keith avoids Shiro’s attempts to trip him up. Shiro abandons the subtle approach, instead driving his shoulder into Keith’s side.

They fall to the mat with a thud, Keith’s knees on either side of Shiro’s hips, and Shiro bucks up into the contact. Keith gets a funny look on his face that Shiro knows has nothing to do with the fight. “Be nice,” he chides.

Shiro blinks up at him innocently. “I am nice.” He bucks again, this time in an actual attempt to unseat Keith rather than just to tease him. Keith’s thighs tense with the effort of keeping Shiro down, but Shiro uses the force of the movement to roll sideways until he’s hovering over Keith.

With a strength and flexibility that’s impossible by human standards, Keith loops his ankles together at the small of Shiro’s back and flips him over his head. Shiro lands on his back, the breath knocked out of him. Keith is on him like a flash; his weight settling more firmly on top of Shiro than before.

They grapple for a few doboshes, but Keith is far stronger than he was during their first fight so long ago. He pins Shiro down using his entire upper body, his alien strength making it impossible for Shiro to shift Keith — and the fight — in his favour.

“Give.” There’s a fierce light in Keith’s eyes. Shiro realizes, then, that this fight wasn’t just for his benefit alone.

“I give,” Shiro says without hesitation, going loose and pliant in Keith’s hold. He doesn’t have an ulterior motive, has no desire to trick Keith into letting his guard down. Keith’s touch soothes something raw and sore inside him. For so long — at the Garrison, in the arena, as the Black Paladin — Shiro was forced to be strong. In Keith’s hands, he doesn’t have to be. “It’s been a while since I’ve lost.”

A purr rumbles in Keith’s chest. “Maybe I’m the only one who can beat you now.”

Shiro smiles up at him. “I don’t mind,” he says. It’s the truth. With anyone else, Shiro would carry his loss like an anchor around his ankle, letting his self-doubt eat away at him. At the Garrison, before Kerberos, Shiro dreaded losing, always fearing that the Garrison would question his ability as a pilot — if they would think his failing muscles were giving out already. In the arena, losing meant death. It’s only with Keith that Shiro can lose without shame or fear.

Keith is — and always has been — the exception.

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, folks!


End file.
